The Farm by the Lake полностью

“Ay. You should have straps with a ’andle on. I guess you’re goin’ into service, are you? Lady’s maid, eh?” There was an insult in the fat woman’s voice, and Flo wished that she had found someone else.

“I’m going to a farm,” said Flo without thought of a denial.

“Huh, all work an’ no play; hand all the mucky work,” was the pitying comment. “I’ve ’ad some. Where’re you goin’?”

“Derbyshire.”

“Muckiest lot o’ farms in creation; hand a mangy stingy lot as works ’em.” The woman drew vigorously up her nose and swallowed. “Scrag end o’ humanity, that’s what I call Derbyshire farmers,” she added as if that clinched it. “Too mean to spend breath blowin’ their own porridge.”

Flo didn’t know what to say.

“Never bin on a farm before?” demanded the fat woman.

“No,” said Flo uncomfortably.

“God ’elp you,” said her questioner, and turned to a thin, meek-looking woman on her other side and went on: “This ’ere young woman’s goin’ on a farm in Derbyshire. She’s goin’ to learn summat, isn’t she?” The meek woman blinked in a way apparently meant to indicate agreement. “Where exac’ly did you say it were?” asked the fat woman, turning back.

“I didn’t say at all,” said Flo, wondering whether to get up and go.

“Oh, didn’t you; then you’d better tell me now.”

“Why should I?” asked Flo reddening, remembering Mrs. Mawson’s advice.

“Eh, please yourself,” said the fat woman, “hand I’ll please myself. On’y probab’ly I could give you a few home truths.” She chuckled in a very knowing way. “There’s none many as I don’t know if it’s anywhere round Moss.”

Flo was so surprised that at once without thinking she exclaimed, “Why, that’s just where it is . . . Mossd-y-c-h-e,” spelling it out, “near Moss. Nadin’s.”

“Eh-oh!” The fat woman clapped her right hand over her knee as though applauding herself. “You’re goin’ to Peppery Monica’s. She’ll teach you summat, hand see that you don’t get rusty through doin’ nowt.” She chuckled, this time with real amusement. “Talk the back leg off a hoss, Monica can, when she gets goin’ . . . and don’t take much gettin’ goin’ neither. What made you go there?”

“I didn’t know,” Flo murmured.

“Didn’t know, hah!” The fat woman laughed loudly. “Peppery Monica . . . five foot two an’ nowt to look at . . . but I’d back ’er to ’old ’er own agen Goliath.” She poked at the meek woman with her elbow. “Did you ’ear what she says? You know Monica . . . at Prettyfields? ’Er as is wed to . . .”

“I think the train’s coming,” interrupted the meek woman, looking over her glasses up the platform.

“Eh, by gum!” ejaculated the fat woman. Instantly she dug podgy hands into the top of her bundle, hoisted it to her hip and waddled forward. The bundle collided heavily with a porter who was looking the other way. He turned angrily. “D’you want all the ruddy platform?” promptly demanded the fat woman.

“Not much ruddy hope if I do,” the man retorted, his frown changing slowly to a grin, though as it were unwillingly.

“If you’re a gentleman, open th’ door,” said the fat woman.

The porter trudged round and tugged at the first one he came to. “You’ll take all the carriage wi’ that; what’re you goin’ to do with it?” he asked.

“Hang it on the knob,” was the quick reply; and at once the woman tried to butt the bundle through the door. It stack and she leaned against it. “’Ere, you, give a shove.”

She let go and the bundle stuck where it was. The porter gave a shove and then put his shoulder to it. “What the hell did you put it in this way for?” he demanded, and began to tug to get the bundle out again. The fat woman lugged, too, and the meek woman looked over her spectacles. Flo, who had followed them, suddenly realized that she needn’t get into their carriage, and that in fact she didn’t want to, but they were going to Manchester and might be useful to her there. So she made to get into the next carriage nearer to the engine.

“’Ere, you, there’s room in ’ere,” said the voice from behind that she already knew well. “You’ll be gettin’ lost if you’ve never been to Manchester.”

The fat woman, who was now leaving it all to the porter, looked at Flo in a possessive way. Flo felt caught.

“Why the hell didn’t you leave it at the laundry?” panted the porter as he struggled to turn the bundle in his arms and get it through sideways. It went in suddenly, so that he sprawled in after it over the step.

“You’ll want goin’ to the laundry yourself if you dust the floor wi’ your waistcoat that way,” said the fat woman.

He dumped the bundle in the far right-hand corner. When he turned to get out he was obstructed by the fat woman who was helping Flo with her bass.

“You should ’a had a train of your own,” was his comment as he pushed backward into the corridor and turned to get out through the next compartment. The fat woman tugged the corridor door shut after him. Flo was wondering whether she could put the bass on the rack when the fat woman took it off her and planted it on the seat opposite to the bundle.